


Reassembly

by orphan_account



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, M/M, Rough Oral Sex, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Writing Exercise, not too graphic violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-03-30 11:01:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3934327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A nightmare when they are one and the same, merging in a single dark, twisted mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reassembly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [red2013](https://archiveofourown.org/users/red2013/gifts).



> Just kidding, I don't know what the fuck this is all about.  
> For red2013 for all the kudos given to me.

The spotlight breaks apart to a million shards when it's falling onto his retina.

The smoke blinds him, hits him in the face, bringing tears in his eyes. Seething mass of people around him, sweaty evaporation, pungent smell and heat of women and men, eardrums rhythmically rumbling on both sides of his skull; his brain is foggy, a toxic cocktail of alcohol, nicotine and caffeine circulating in his veins. Searching, fevered seeking through the crowd of bodies, shoulders bumping hard, joints spaining, not thinking of anything but the hunting for the One, drawn to him like a moth that's seduced by the blaze of a lamp. Passion pops up in his mind, like a covalent bond between two idea-links, but for a moment he’s not aware of it, just the clench of his stomach becomes part of the reality. The outer and inner rage is becoming unbearable, and when his fantasy takes a shape, in the wake of it the attached emotions also rise. Reaction-strings are catalyzed by the thought, initialized in his head before wandering downwards in his body: throat tightening, heart beginning to pound, palms are sweating, and the tension of his stomach is added to the lethal cocktail of drugs. In his groin his blood is circulating like thundering... But the object of his emotions is still hiding behind the even horizons of the gaping black holes of his consciousness.

Finally _he_ shows up, his real being on the periphery of his vision. Leaning against the wall, cigarette dangling loosely in his mouth, imprints of the past few years running through his stubble-darkened face in chronological order. In his eyes indifference and hatred are conflicting, contempt and pity are struggling.

The rush of adrenaline in Wilson’s body is maddening; his face, like a mirror between matter and antimatter, like a clock ticking backwards, accurately reflects the opposite of House’s mimics. But he does not say anything, just turns his head and steps through the only door.

In the room he leans onto the table, and takes a big gulp of the alcohol from the bottle in his hand. Neon light on the plaster. The murmur of the crowd is  subdued here, but he still feels the roar of the bass in his guts. His thoughts, now that he just let himself live through his own feelings, are empty. He’s tired; he just wants to rest, just wants to forget. He buries his forehead in his hands, his hair caressing the back of his hand, flowing among his fingers.

He regains consciousness only at the cracking of the door. House already stands there next to him: his form framed by a distorted halo of cigarette smoke, in his gaze cold disgust is grappling with a touch of puzzlement. Wilson also looks at him, his internal hurricanes are now forced behind indifferent features, but to no avail; after so many years, so many experiences lived through together all pretending is unnecessary. They’ve known each other for so long that sometimes they feel like they were brothers.

The silence is like brimstone. Wilson’s heartbeat is so strong that for a moment he thinks that maybe that was life. Frailty.

House looks at him, trying to recall something of the old relationship, of the old feelings, at least the remnants of them. Silence.

"I beg you," Wilson starts to speak hesitantly, "help me to live... Or help me to finish it all if it’s impossible to go back!"

His strangled plea dies in the enclosed space. House is silent, treading the butt of his cigarette carelessly into the linoleum with his sneaker, lower lip pursing up as he blows out the remaining smoke.

"Please, help... I’m vanishing away..." Wilson whispers, hands seizing House’s shirt on his shoulders, pulling, pulling him toward himself without any goal.

And suddenly he’s in another mind, able to look around, able to see himself through different eyes, able to realize that this is a nightmare; he’s on both sides now, bizarrely split personality, and they are together separately, they are one and the same.

"It’s so easy to handle you that it makes me sad."

House's face is a petrified mask as he notes the choked gasp, the weakening of the clinging fingers, the hands slowly sliding down along his arms. But Wilson's sudden kiss on his mouth is so surprising that for a moment he doesn’t comprehend it, just reacts instinctively, and the feeling of the sticking lips and lukewarmly twined tongues is so irresistible that his blood starts to flow sparklingly towards the center of his body.

Infinite time, infinite pleasure, infinite singularity, infinite roads to take from here, a series of flashbacks... The kiss is maddening, the blessing of not having to think for a few nanoseconds, and they both want it to never end.

But then House pulls away, no longer reciprocating Wilson’s gaze, instead just scanning his body. In his narrowed eyes his gaze freezes to an ice disk, his pupils absorb the irises as the slaps into Wilson’s face, hard, then he grabs the staggering man by the back of his head, caressing for a minute, his fingers wrapped in the brown hair almost tenderly; but then he yanks his head back, lips sticking to the Adam’s apple of the neck being exposed.

Grabbing a shoulder again as Wilson gasps, tears bursting from his eyes, humid from agony and humiliation.

House's tongue is wildly lapping across Wilson's neck, relentlessly sucking the blood under the skin, and as his hands are tearing his hair, his mind absorbs the shocked and anguished moans with rapture. Months of perhaps unwarranted anger and rage circulate in his brain, and he furiously presses their bodies close, squeezing the air out of their lungs and from between them, torn asunder between the desire of attraction and desire to escape, letting the other hug him back hesitantly.

This is not the time for reason. This is time for experiencing the unknown, time for contradictions.

Then House pushes him away, in his brain cruel madness swirls with brushed-aside sobriety. "Kneel," he spats out, voice is impassive icicle-dagger, and Wilson looks at him with devastation of eons in his eyes, but he obeys. Knees squeak on the floor as he crawls forward to dig his face into the other man's hot lap, to inhale the sickening odor once, twice again, to breathe in the smell of lust evaporating from below the denim, maybe for the last time. Dryer, sharper, more intoxicating than a woman’s smell... Lips parting, from below half-closed eyelids, like he was watching a low bitrate recording, he sees how House pulls down the zipper, and he pushes his tongue against the thin skin revealed on the inner side of the thigh, slowly licking to the juncture where body and leg connect, feeling the tickling hairs running away from his caress. Under the glass shell of submission, the far restrained everyday madness whose nickname is lust, breaks out of him as he grabs the House's hips and eagerly takes his pulsating manhood into himself.

Hands stretched over Wilson’s nape, House yanks his head to his groin over and over again, and through the haze of his rapidly narrowing consciousness he’s watching Wilson's face during their union, absorbing each pixel of the sight before the frenzy of frustration overwhelms him again like a forest fire, and he can hardly restrain himself not to choke his degreaded lover, his whore with a single thrust. The tongue is humble and hot, the teeth scratch the skin as House is moving in his mouth, and Wilson sinks his nails into his tormentor’s thigh, making the muscles jump and the jeans sizzle as the anguish envelops his throat and scalp, he wants to beg for mercy but is unable to.

House does not know anymore whether all that is happening is true or just a mere illusion, but he does not care since his body is screaming for pleasure, screaming from pain as in the empty room, in the rumble infiltrating from the outside, among D majors and C scales he’s fucking his former best friend's mouth like in an obscene, kinky, wet dream, until he finally surrenders, his world breaks into a million pieces around him in a nascent big bang, the breath clogs in his throat and his other hand clenches into a whitening fist on the desk.

_cataclysm_

The sound of slowly dying wheezing stiffens into silence, after half a minute of pleasure the emptiness returns. Wilson still hugs House’s thigh, leaning his forehead against him, drops of blood and semen falling from his torn, open lips onto the floor in front of him, tears in his eyes, bittersweet as their shared past.

In the blue eyes the ice disk of madness breaks, and as if he was just awakening, his palm moves on its own on Wilson’s head, not tearing, just caressing with wound-healing kindness. Then the repressed, close-to-madness, joyless laughter reaches his ears; and at the sound cold sweat springs in the middle of his spine, and he instinctively heads back toward the door.

Wilson hunches as his laughter molts into a tone sequence of death rattle, hands between his thighs, in his mind dullness and desolation. The noise of silence, like the cosmic background radiation, overwhelms everything.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry. My mind blew up and I had to write it out of myself. Thank God that it was just a nightmare.


End file.
